Requiem
by pounding of native drums
Summary: "The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad night."
1. Chapter 1

**Pairing: **Santana/Brittany, Sam/Quinn, Tina/Mike

**Summary**: "The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad night." Friedrich Nietzsche

**Spoilers**: all to be safe

**Warnings**: Sexual abuse, rape, suicide, depression, angst, Canada.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own it. Based on a prompt from the **glee angst meme**.

* * *

**Requiem**

Chapter One

In middle school Santana learned that she had a small problem. (And it wasn't petty crime, as Fabray liked to tell any who would listen during their _enemy _phase of _frenemies_.) No, her problem was the deep-seated urge to flee, often for days at a time.

During the seventh grade, one month after her mamá died, Santana literally _ran away_. She grabbed several hundred dollars of cash, put on some comfortable clothes, and double-knotted her running shoes. Luckily, it was spring and relatively warm.

Brittany was the only one not (overwhelmingly) concerned for Santana's safety; she knew Santana was always armed and dangerous. It also helped that Santana said good-bye to her before she jogged off into the sunset.

Santana _ran away_ again in the eighth grade, this time for only three days. (Not many concerned themselves with this disappearance, as Santana had built a reputation for vanishing acts. Some lasted several hours, others a day or two.) Her mamá had died one year ago to the day and everyone blamed it on that tragedy. Santana, however, had a different reason, a reason which she told no one and called, _The Incident._

In her junior year, Santana's bad habit reared its head at the worst possible moment: in the midst of sweet lady kisses with Brittany. It _could_ be considered Brittany's fault, as she was just short of declaring her unyielding lesbian passion, but in reality? Santana realized it was her own damn fault. She was too afraid to commit and be gay and all that shit; and so, after she fled Brittany's room, she fucked Puck's brains out. It wasn't as satisfying as it should've been.

A road trip came a few months later, this time involving a thousand dollars cash of her stepfather's doctor money, his credit card, and his very expensive Range Rover to brave the treacherous wilderness. The reason for Santana's need to flee is a mystery, as she _destroyed_ her solo at sectionals and moved up the cheerleading pyramid a few weeks prior.

Again, she told only Brittany she was leaving (via text message), and only Sam Evans worried she had been abducted by aliens.

* * *

It's Monday, and Katy Perry's "California Gurls" blasts from the enormous stereos.

Within seconds, Cheerios and a girl with a flaming hula hoop strut between two bike ramps, blue wigs a sharp contrast to the "victorious blood red" of their McKinley cheer uniforms.

To Brittany, everything is chaos: she just concentrates on the steps and the rhythm and Katy Perry's hot voice and not the strange contraptions that are shooting flames at the back of the gym. She wishes Santana were here; her best friend would love the crazy routine and her presence always keeps Brittany grounded and _focused_.

As quickly as it begins it ends, the Cheerios panting quietly but in perfect formation.

Watching from the sidelines, Coach Sylvester raises her bullhorn lethargically and declares: "I'm _bored_."

Two pairs of sparkling boobs fizzle out sadly.

"Ladies, I am at a loss," Sue says softly, eyeing them all with distaste. Her fierce blue eyes lock with Brittany's, and she gulps.

"Brittany, please remind me of how I single handedly put cheerleading on the map."

Oh, this one's easy.

"In 1979, you directed a made for TV movie about the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, called _The Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders_," Brittany recites, fidgeting nervously.

"That is correct. In the meantime, what's changed?" Sue muses aloud.

"Personally grooming habits?" Quinn says sarcastically.

"What's changed is I have _completely _lost interest," Sue says quickly, ignoring Quinn, "and ladies, I blame _you._"

Sue turns to Becky, who holds a red bucket full of jiggly... _things_. "Becky, more silicone falsies."

"Got it, Coach," Becky responds, striding forward and handing each Cheerio a pair. Brittany gags at the slimy texture.

"You will each enhance your bust with an additional pair of chicken cutlets in an attempt to add jiggle to what is _the_ most _boring_ routine I have ever witnessed." Brittany shoots a quick glance to her right, where Santana _should _be.

Oh, right.

Canada.

Brittany occasionally forgets. It's only been a day, and she's so used to having Santana with her it's like they're one and the same. Of course, now that she's dating Artie, they've kind of drifted apart, but...

"But Coach Sylvester, this is the most elaborate routine the Cheerios have ever done," Quinn protests, hands on her hips (she refuses to take the 'chicken' cutlets). "We're shoe ins at Regionals next week, and the favorite to win at Nationals—"

"And yet, I am still, _so very bored_," Sue says through her bullhorn with a weary sigh. "Even things I used to think were _hilarious_... Case in point. Sandbags, slap yourself with the chicken cutlet."

A tense, ringing silence echoes throughout the gym.

"Where is Sandbags," Sylvester says menacingly.

"She's gone," Quinn answers irritably.

"_Gone?_" she repeats. "Where the hell is she?"

"Canada," Brittany provides. "At least, that's what she told me. I have a text. Want to see?"

Quinn hushes her.

Sue's eyes narrow. "_Canada_," she snarls venomously, "is homeland of the gays and is the most _inferior_ nation in the Western Hemisphere. It is only slightly above France, vampires, and the class-five disaster that is Will Schuester's hair."

Brittany wonders what Coach Sylvester has against Canada. Didn't they give the Free World maple syrup?

"Becky, make a note."

"Yes, Coach," Becky replies automatically, picking up a conveniently placed clipboard and pen.

Blue eyes narrow in righteous fury. "First: due to Boobs McGee's defection to that lesser territory, her status as a Cheerio is under review. Second: demote her to the bottom of the pyramid, stat."

Becky salutes with her clipboard.

"But Coach, Santana is one of our best Cheerios—" Quinn begins, and Brittany bites her fingernails anxiously. They taste like silicone falsies and red polish.

"Fabray, I am not in the mood for your insubordination," Sue interrupts. Then, as if the previous tirade on Canada and Santana never occurred, Sue turns to Brittany and commands, "Brittany, slap yourself with a chicken cutlet. You are now replacing Sandbags as the object of my amusement."

Brittany glances around confusedly. Quinn rolls her eyes and nods, and she takes that as an affirmative to indulge their demented coach. Brittany slaps the silicone falsie against her face and her eyes water. She managed to smack herself in the nose rather hard.

Sylvester frowns. "Not even a _chuckle_..."

Quinn arches one of her infamous eyebrows in a challenge. "The problem is, _you_ keep trying to make a bigger and bigger spectacle. No matter how hard we try, we can't make a routine work unless _you_ find a way to make it interesting for _you_. You _have_ to find a way to top yourself."

"Q, you just may have a point," Sue says.

Quinn smiles smugly.

"But to be sure... slap yourself with the chicken cutlet."

Quinn blinks.

The practice ends fifteen minutes later, Quinn furious and Brittany's nose smarting.

"I cannot _believe_ her!" Quinn seethes, digging in her purse for her phone.

"I know," Brittany agrees. "I can't believe she made us slap ourselves with cutlets. That really hurt."

Quinn stares disbelieving at Brittany, who is massaging her bruised nose gently.

"No, Britt! I'm talking about Santana!"

"Oh." Brittany frowns. "What's wrong with Santana?"

Quinn throws her hands in the air exasperatedly. "She _left_ us _alone_ with a crazy Coach Sylvester! And went to _Canada_! Without telling _anyone_!"

"She told me," Brittany says. "Want to see the text?"

"_No I do not want to see the text_," Quinn hisses. "And you don't count!"

Brittany pouts.

The head cheerleader scowls. "Sorry, Britt, it's just—Santana is acting weird lately. And I'm tired of it."

Brittany shrugs, grabbing her phone. She's texting Santana about the practice no matter what her location.

"I'm going to text her," Quinn says to the empty locker room. "I'm going to text her, and I'm going to _demand_ that she haul her scrawny Latina ass back here!"

Unfortunately, Santana turned her phone off and she's in, you know, _Canada_, so anything Quinn wants to nag about will have to wait until Santana's return.

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Sanny**

**Sent: Mon Jan 31, 5:43 pm**

_Hey just sayin we did KP but coach hated it and made me slap myself :'( btw is it cold? cuz we have fire down hur lol_

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Lopez**

** Sent: Mon Jan 31, 5:50 pm**

_I am going to kill you. Coach is insane and if you don't haul your scrawny Latina ass down here in the next second I will come and get you MYSELF._

* * *

It's Tuesday, meaning the second full day of Santana's expedition to Canada. No one is overly concerned.

The student body is only worried about the big game on Friday since Finn fucked up last week's game like the moronic man-child that he is.

The faculty is equally worried about the game; they never came this close to football recognition under Tanaka's coaching, and, if they somehow fail miserably as is McKinley's tendency, then destructive riots will most certainly break out.

And if they, God help them, somehow _win_, joyful and inebriated riots will erupt reminiscent of a Britney Spears Sex Riot.

Either way, valuable property will be destroyed and Santana is the farthest thing from everyone's mind.

Excluding, of course, Brittany and Quinn, though the latter is less concerned and more vengeful. (Honest to God, Quinn is going to _kill_ Santana.)

* * *

Brittany and Quinn stand outside in the cold during Tuesday's Cheerios practice, gazing in awe at a massive cannon. It's decorated with red and black flames, the typical Cheerio red, and a gold WMHS insignia.

It is one of the most fearsome sights Quinn has ever had the privilege of seeing.

Sue strokes the weapon lovingly.

"Ladies... meet my Suclear weapon."

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Sanny **

**Sent: Tues Feb 1, 5:25 pm**

_Sanny Coach Sylvester is trying to shoot me out of her Suclear weapon you need to get back here now I'm scared I don't think Mr Schue can stop her_

* * *

It's Wednesday, and rumors are spreading like wildfire.

This is mainly due to a poll on Jewfro's blog. The students have four options. Some are outrageous, some not at all reasonable. When Quinn finally looks up the site after school—due to Coach's shenanigans with an illegal German cannon, practice was canceled—she chokes on her water.

_Poll on Santana's Disappearance!_ _Please answer TRUTHFULLY! This is an extremely accurate poll and DEPENDS on Your HONESTY!_

_ Santana Murdered someone, and was Forced to Flee from the Law:_ 51.3%

_ Santana Fled Lima with Samuel Evan's __Bastard child__: _33.7%

_ Prostitution: 31.9%_

_ Santana Defected to the Inferior Land of Canada:_ 5.0%

There are so many things wrong with this poll, Quinn doesn't know where to start.

One: The biggest flaw in the actual poll is the percentage totals to 121.9%. Not 100%. It's mathematically incorrect.

Two: These options are completely illogical. Getting pregnant with _Sam's_ bastard child? Santana has only insulted _Quinn's_ boyfriend, showing no interest whatsoever in his somewhat adorable dorkiness and not at all 'trouty mouth.' And why is 'Bastard child' a link?

The only thing Quinn wants to mention about prostitution is the fact that it is one word, as opposed to a phrase like the rest. It bothers her to no end.

Canada is the truth, and it's the lowest percentage, meaning absolute ridiculousness. And speaking of Canada, why does everyone hate on it? Didn't it give the Free World maple syrup?

Three: There are way too many exclamation points. Enough said.

Four: Quinn's biggest problem, personally, is that out of the 936 people that took Jewfro's ridiculous sham of a poll, 480.17 of them think Santana's a murdering sociopath. Except seriously. She's reading the grammatically incorrect comments, and that's the gist.

Santana is _not_ crazy. She may be possessive of Brittany, jealousy prone, violent, and need serious anger management and counseling, but she is _not_ a murdering sociopath. There is a fine line, and Santana has yet to cross it.

(Quinn decided a long time ago that if she ever does, it will be for the sake of Brittany. That's why she's been keeping a close eye on Artie lately. The only thing stopping Santana from slitting the boy's throat with her carefully hidden razorblades is Brittany's proximity.)

When she discovers this mockery of the art of statistics, however, Santana will kill Jewfro. And possibly Sam, for being second on the list and garnering a whopping 33.7%. Quinn will probably kill her boyfriend, too, on principle. Theoretically, he got Santana pregnant.

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Lopez**

** Sent: Wed Feb 2, 4:17 pm**

_They made a poll about you loser and 936 people took it. 51% said you killed someone, 34% said you're preggo with Sam, 32% said prostitution, and 5% said you_

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Lopez**

**Sent: Wed Feb 2, 4:17 pm**

_ defected to the inferior land of Canada_

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Lopez**

**Sent: Wed Feb 2, 4:40**

_I know it's 122%, so don't say anything._

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Lopez**

** Sent: Wed Feb 2, 5:55**

_Btw, I don't think you could kill anyone. I know you're crazy, but not a raging sociopath_

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Lopez**

** Sent: Wed Feb 2, 7:29**

_But I WILL kill you if you don't get back IMMEDIATELY. Or if you sleep with Sam. Just sayin_

* * *

It's Thursday, and now the faculty is concerned.

The news that Santana has fled the United States due to manslaughter is known by everyone, including the ignorant band geeks, socially inept AV nerds, and hopelessly oblivious teachers like Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell and Mr. Schuester.

As Santana's best friend and only known ally, Brittany has been interrogated more times than she can count. Her default answer: "She's in Canada. She sent me a text. Want to see?"

Quinn is occasionally asked questions, due to the somewhat limited knowledge that, until Santana's disappearance, they were in the _friend_ stage of _frenemies_. Now Quinn is firmly aligned with the _archnemesis_ aspect of _frenemies_, and she refuses to acknowledge anyone's questions unless with a frosty glare and/or Fabray Eyebrow of Judgment and Doom.

Brittany is facing inquiries yet again, and this time, it's Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell. Santana is far from her mind, because she remembers last year she had to see the guidance counselor three times a week, back when she was Ms. Pillsbury. The topic was mainly the baby duck in her locker and co-discrepancy with Santana. (Whatever that is.)

Santana is at the forefront of Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell's mind. The rumors about murder, unwanted pregnancies, prostitution, and Canada are alarming; she has pamphlets on all four, but now that Santana is gone she has no way of delivering them.

So Emma settles with fidgeting uncomfortably behind her desk. Her questioning of one Brittany Susan Pierce about one Santana Isabel Lopez is failing miserably.

"So, Brittany," Emma starts timidly, wondering how to broach the subject. "How has your day been?"

"Good," Brittany responds in her dreamy voice. "I don't have any birds in my locker, if that's what you want."

Emma winces at the memory. A poor baby duckling was trapped in Brittany's locker for seventy-hours and survived. "No, that's not why I called you in. I was curious about Santana, and her whereabouts and safety. Many of the student body and staff are worried about her."

Brittany's blank expression is mildly suspicious. "I told everyone everything I know. She's in Canada. And she hasn't murdered anyone."

An enormous weight flies off Emma's chest at Brittany's words. But—

"Santana's in Canada? _Really_?"

"Duh," Brittany says with an absentminded shrug. "How many times do I have to tell you people...?"

"I thought, I don't know," Emma splutters, unable to form a coherent response. Honestly, the ginger thought Santana fled South. That was her theory; unfortunately, it wasn't on Jacob's poll, and she had to choose "manslaughter" instead.

Brittany raises an eyebrow in a very Quinn Fabray-like manner.

"I thought she hated Canada," Emma mutters shamefully.

"Santana _loves_ maple syrup, especially licking it off my abs," Brittany deadpans. "That's really racist of you, Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell."

"I apologize," Emma apologizes with a blush, though she's not sure why.

"It's okay." Brittany shrugs. "She sent me a text. Wanna see?"

Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell coughs and discreetly adjusts a pencil on her desk. "Um, yes, that would be nice."

Brittany beams, and quickly whips out her cell phone. "You're the first person to ask to see," she says happily, quickly tapping a few buttons on the touch screen. "Uh, okay. She said, 'Hey Britts, I'm going to Canada for a drug deal, don't worry, love Sanny.' And _I_ said, 'Okay L-O-L, bring me some maple syrup, love you too Sanny, hugs and kisses, hugs and kisses, smiley face.' "

Emma blinks. _Drug deal...?_

"Is that good?"

Emma attempts to respond, "No, that is _not_ 'good', on so many levels. Santana sent you a text about _drug deals_ and everyone thinks she _murdered _someone or joined a prostitution ring."

Instead, she says eloquently, "Guh."

"I'll see you later!" Brittany chirps, departing in Emma's state of shock.

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Sanny**

** Thurs Feb 3, 2:30 pm**

_Sanny come back soon ok? I miss you and everyone keeps asking me questions. And mrs. p-h is racist. :(_

* * *

It's Thursday, 3:30 in the afternoon, meaning Glee practice and a late Mr. Schuester.

Quinn sits bored in her seat next to Sam as her boyfriend gushes about video games with Finn in a display of epic bromance. Mike cuddles with Tina lovingly while she jokes with Mercedes, the two girls allowing Mike to contribute occasionally to the conversation. Lauren and Puck do _something_ in the back, while Berry rifles through sheet music at the piano.

Brittany sits next to Artie, dismissing his attempts at comfort while she stares forlornly at her cell phone. Brittany has been inconsolable since Tuesday, and she's bringing everyone's spirits down with her.

Quinn hears footsteps and glances towards to the doorway, only to see a giant of a man hovering anxiously. He's muscular and almost as tall as Finn, only without the teenager's oafish airs. The man is strangely familiar to Quinn, with his ruffled black hair and tanned skin. She feels intimidated and scared by the newcomer, though she's sitting in the risers with her boyfriend and Finn between them.

The man bites his lower lip in worry, and knocks on the door frame. Eleven pairs of eyes with varying levels of interest observe him, and Quinn is somewhat consoled to see that the other girls—minus Zizes—appear nervous as well.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, but have you seen my daughter? I know she practices here every Thursday. I already tried talking to the cheerleading coach, but she wasn't very pleasant," he rambles.

The Glee club winces collectively at the mention of Sue Sylvester.

"It's been almost a week, and I'm beginning to get scared..."

The silence is stifling. Fortunately Brittany breaks it, her tone morose. "Don't worry, Dr. Rodriquez. She does this all the time. Remember?"

Sam is immediately confused. "Rodriquez? I thought Santana's last name is Lopez."

"I'm her stepfather," he clarifies.

"Oh." Sam feels like an ass. Then, he remembers what else Brittany said. "Hold on a sec. Santana 'disappears all the time'?"

"Of course. I had to hold her hostage to rehearse our duet," Mercedes grumbles. "Disappearing is one of her favorite things to do."

"Aside from sex," Puckerman snickers. He grunts in pain when Lauren socks him in the arm.

"It was really bad in middle school," Quinn says, in a disarmingly matter-of-fact way. "She barely made it to high school, she had so many absences."

"Yeah, dude. Didn't you know?" Puck comments, picking at a mysterious stain on his shirt, ignoring Lauren. He is apparently bored with the topic of Santana's whereabouts and safety.

"I wasn't here," Sam points out, still lost.

"No, _now_. She still pulls a Houdini once in a while."

"Oh," Sam repeats, feeling overwhelmed. Why does no one tell him things? And he really _did_ notice the absences. Honestly. He thought she had a weak immune system, or liked skipping to vandalize and steal things with Puckerman.

"She sent me a text message before she left, Dr. Rodriquez. Wanna see?" Brittany offers.

Dr. Rodriquez sighs a polite, "No thank you," before glancing around the choir room. The only adult he spots is Brad at the piano, and the ginger is too surly and silent to be a teacher. "Where's your teacher?"

"He's always late," Artie answers. "Did she take a credit card? You can track her movements that way."

"It takes twenty-four hours for a purchase to show," Dr. Rodriquez says. "She's basically withdrawing large sums of money and converting it into Canadian dollars. She's done it twice thus far, once in Columbus and another in _London_, Canada?"

"Could you cancel it, to make her come home?"

"Yes, but how would she _get_ home?" he responds wryly. "The damn car's a gas guzzler."

Sam quickly loses interest in the ensuing conversation. The Santana-conundrum is too intriguing to pass up.

Who, he muses, goes missing for a week, and spawns a whole host of harebrained theories? Including Sam _himself_ impregnating her? (Yeah, that was a hard one to explain to his parents.)

Apparently, the answer to these questions is Santana.

And there is only one explanation as to why.

Sam sighs mentally. His _accurate _conclusion will most likely forever put him in bad graces with Quinn. Farewell, Quinn's delicious lipgloss. It will be some time before he tastes it and enjoys its vanilla cupcake-y flavor. (Quinn is like, the _ultimate _cockblock, especially when he 'nerds out'. It's totally unfair.)

"I know what happened," Sam announces.

Everyone looks at him. Sam pays careful attention to two people: Dr. Rodriquez's dark eyes shine with hope, and Quinn? Well, her eyes promise pain with an interesting mixture of anger and mortification.

"She was kidnapped." Dr. Rodriquez blanches. Quinn holds her head in her hands and sighs.

"By aliens."

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Sanny **

** Sent: Thurs Feb 3, 3:59**

_Sam thought you were abducted by aliens like I was that one time. Don't let them probe you, it hurts. xoxo_

* * *

Friday is the big game and they manage to win, but only with the help of zombies. Brittany is delighted at the prospect of both zombies _and_ being able to wear regular clothes, as both her and Quinn have abandoned Sue's mad struggle for power.

Quinn is not so excited. She's not looking forward to telling Santana they quit the Cheerios. So, she'll just text her the news.

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Sanny **

** Sent: Sat Feb 5, 12:51 am**

_We won the game! We got to dress up like zombies with the football players and it was like a zombie double rainbow! I wish you were here! :D_

* * *

**Message successfully sent to Lopez**

** Sent: Sat Feb 5, 2:15 pm**

_Britt and I quit the Cheerios because Sue tried to shoot Britt out of a cannon. FYI_

* * *

When Santana arrives home late Sunday, she is equally relieved and afraid. She can hardly stand and the Range Rover is a little worse for wear; however, she is in one piece, and has not seen, heard of, nor been probed by _any _aliens. (For some reason, Santana is incredibly amused that Sam chose _aliens_ as the reason for her leisurely adventure to Canada. She is _not_ so amused by the other reasons that Quinn sent to her, available on Jewfro's blog. She promises him a very slow, very painful death.)

"Of all the things to blame," Santana says to herself, sprawled on her bed. "Aliens, prostitution, _murder_... What the fuck were they _on_?"

She also wonders what Brittany and Quinn were on when they decided to quit Cheerios; maybe it's her tired mind, but the texts about zombie double rainbows and Suclear weapons did _not_ make sense. Most of those texts would actually be big hits on that "texts from last night" website.

Santana vows to destroy Quinn, for the hell of it. (And for sending all those death threats.)

She begins to drift off fully clothed, enjoying the darkness of her bedroom. She is so exhausted, and wants to sleep _immediately_; but she needs her bag, which she stupidly left in the foyer, and it's only seven o'clock. If she sleeps now, she'll wake up at two in the morning, or something equally awful.

Or she could fall asleep forever. That would be nice.

Santana groans and drags herself from her comfortable bed, down the flight of endless stairs, and through the maze of hallways. Santana wonders what kind of aliens Evans imagined and Brittany encountered.

Evans' aliens are probably enormous blue hippies with tails. After all, the tool speaks _Na'vi_ and probably visits Pandora whenever he's high (not like Santana's watched the movie or anything).

Brittany's aliens are probably the typical green aliens, or enormous ducks, or a taco that poops ice cream. Who knows with Britt-Britt.

Santana stumbles into the gleaming kitchen. Someone occupies the large kitchen bar, and it reminds her of the real reason she fled to Canada.

It is much worse than any extraterrestrial Evans can imagine, the ice cream pooping tacos that probed Brittany, or even all the fucking dumbass reasons Jewfro invented on his blog.

"Santana." Her name sounds filthy on her stepfather's lips. "I missed you."

"Hey, Esteban," Santana greets. Inside, she is anxious and afraid. Outside, she is calm and collected. You know, the stereotypical behavior of the heroine facing her abusive stepfather.

Dr. Rodriquez rolls his eyes. "My name is _Steven_, Santana." He pours another shot of expensive tequila. "Please say my name properly, even though I know you love speaking Spanish to annoy me."

Santana smirks. "True." Her stepfather pretends to be Hispanic and married a Puerto Rican woman, but he's barely conversational in the language.

Esteban sighs. "I really did miss you, Santana. I was worried sick. Even though you _are_ a pain in the ass."

Santana scoffs in disbelief.

"Why did you leave me?"

Santana dismisses the question, desperately staring at the doorway to the foyer where her red Cheerios bag waits.

"Santana," Esteban snaps, and she immediately faces him. She can't help it. His voice is deep and commanding and his very presence demands attention. He's taller than her by almost a foot, and easily over a hundred pounds heavier.

"Answer me," he growls, his tone more menacing. Santana checks and the shot is gone. He must have downed it in the second she looked away. Fanfuckingtastic.

Against her better judgment she mutters mutinously, "_No contesto a ti, viejo. Sabes por qué me fui, así que no empezar a esa mierda._"

His black eyes flash with fury, and yeah, Santana fucked up pretty bad.

"What did you say?"

Well, her worn out brain manages, might as well go out with a bang.

Santana rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. "You know, if you were _half_ as Hispanic as you pretend, you wouldn't need me to translate."

Esteban narrows his eyes. "Not all of us are lucky enough to be born in third world countries."

Santana clenches her fists. _Don't say anything. Don't bait him. Don't say _anything_. _

She exhales shakily. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Good," Esteban snorts. "You smell like you belong in that dirt poor country you're so proud of."

Santana merely grits her teeth and walks away.

* * *

It feels like Santana _just_ fell asleep when she hears a grunt that sounds like a fucking bear collapsed on her bed. Santana is too tired to be alarmed; she merely glances at her clock. Bright red numbers illuminate the darkness. They read _1:44 am. _

Santana groans. She _did _wake up at two am, even if it is because of a bear.

"So, you _are_ awake?" a voice whispers hoarsely, and it is _not_ a bear, but much worse, and she flinches at the tone. It makes Santana realize she's the helpless prey and he's the ferocious, invincible predator, and no matter how many times she hears it she always wants to cry.

Maybe if she plays dead it'll leave. Doesn't that work in the wild? Don't bears only want to play with live victims?

"Answer me," he hisses, his voice lower.

Santana steadies her breathing.

A vicious slap across her cheek startles her—stars swim in front of her eyes. He's never hit her on the face before. He knows better than to leave marks.

"_Answer me_."

"I'm awake," she whispers, her voice barely audible. Shit, her cheek hurts like a bitch. She hates that she answered in English. It feels like she betrays herself more with each passing moment.

"Good girl," he growls. He clumsily rolls on top of Santana's prone body, panting. Santana bites her tongue. He's crushing her, the air slowly escaping her lungs, and she can feel _him_ through his boxers and her thin pajama pants. Through half-lidded eyes, she sees her alarm clock cast his face in an eerie, demonic light. She vows to get rid of the damn thing as soon as possible.

The beast exhales harshly, a rush of tequila invading her senses. The potency makes her dizzy and hot damn, how does he not have alcohol poisoning?

Santana doesn't speak and he appears to not care. He merely shifts his hips and moans. Santana stifles a whimper; tears pool, catching on her long eyelashes. _No no no no no_.

He turns ink black eyes to her face and delicately traces a thumb across her lower lip. "You look _just_ like her..." he murmurs softly, almost lovingly, and Santana wants to vomit up her entire being.

He trails thick fingers across her face: delicate cheekbones, sloping nose, finely trimmed eyebrows, before finally settling back on her full lips.

"God, María," he whispers, and his rough whiskers scratch her cheek as his teeth latch onto her neck.

A hand brutally squeezes her breast and she hears him whisper into her marked neck, "I love you, María. So, _so_ much..."

Santana refuses to let the tears fall as her stepfather quickly removes her pants. Once she hears his words, though, his chapped lips brushing against her soft skin as they whisper terms of endearment for her deceased _mamá_, hot tears streak down her tanned cheeks.

Her mind, buried so far beneath this, rationalizes that she _shouldn't _cry; she's sixteen, meaning she's too old to cry, especially over something that began when she was thirteen. A sob wrenches itself free of her throat. She's so _tired _of fighting, of _everything_.

As a rough hand scratches south, she wonders—not for the first time—how far she's willing to go to end this, and in a heartbeat, she knows.

A calloused palm muffles gasps of pain.

He enters her.

She wants to die.

* * *

Spanish: "I don't answer to you, old man. You know why I left, so don't start that shit."

I don't speak Spanish, I used Google Translator, so if any of it's totally butchered, I'm sorry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Pairing**: Santana/Brittany, Sam/Quinn

**Summary**: "The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad night." Friedrich Nietzsche

**Spoilers**: all to be safe

**Warnings**: Sexual abuse, rape, suicide, depression, angst, Canada, hippies.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own it. Based on a prompt from the **glee angst meme**.

* * *

**Requiem**

Chapter Two

Santana watches enough shitty TV to know what to do. Of course, it isn't as easy as she thinks. Nothing ever is.

(She saw it the other day, on some crime show. The officer ducked down to the little girl's level, the tiny thing so pitiful and woebegone. The woman whispered, "_Why didn't you tell an adult?"_

Santana scowled as the girl whispered back, "_Because no one would believe me_.")

It's her free period, and Santana has decided to _finally _tell someone, all because of that fucking show she never watches. She wants her life to work out like it does on TV. That starts with spilling your guts and tears and all that shit, right?

She hovers outside Mr. Schue's office nervously. She's not prepared for this. Honestly, she wants to talk to a woman, but Ms. Holliday has disappeared again and Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell is useless. ("Would you like some pamphlets, Santana? I have plenty.")

_Tell an adult._

_ I can't_, Santana thinks. _I can't tell anyone because all the adults I know are useless or sociopaths or have their heads so far up their asses they're choking on their own ridiculous hair._

She's never actually said it out loud, and how can she?

_Santana, tell _someone.

She stands there in a daze. She hopes the Spanish teacher is here, guiding students _except _her. Yet, there's this tiny part that wishes he isn't, that the next time she works up the courage Ms. Holliday will be back. For some reason, Santana feels that she's his least favorite student.

_What did she ever do to him besides halfheartedly attempt to destroy the glee club?_

The Cheerio knocks softly on Mr. Schuester's door. It shatters the stillness of the empty hallways.

"Come in!" he calls, and Santana shakily enters, wiping sweaty palms on her uniform skirt.

_What if he doesn't believe her?_

"Santana," Mr. Schue greets, surprised. He caps a red pen; he was grading last week's test papers. Santana notes with disgust that Quinn received a 110 and a smiley face. The bitch probably cheated off her test again. "Sit down, sit down."

Santana perches on the edge of the old chair. She glances around the room at the shitty Spanish projects, pointedly avoiding Mr. Schue's gaze. She hasn't worked up the courage to make eye contact.

"So, what's up? Is this about Glee club or something else?" Mr. Schue shifts towers of assignments, obviously looking for something; however, he quickly gives up and returns his attention to Santana. "I can't find my grade book, but I'm positive you have over a hundred in my class."

Santana smirks before remembering _why _she's here. She's here because even though she's never really said it—

_You know what it is_.

She swallows nervously, wiping her palms on her skirt again. She wants to say, _It's a glee thing_. _Quit giving Rachel Berry so many solos. Let people audition like a normal choir. Quit being such an asshat. _

"It's something else," her traitorous mouth mutters, denying her the out.

He leans forward, taking on the air of a concerned parent, as he tends to do with everyone else. "What's the matter, Santana?"

Santana swallows her anxiety. _He'll believe me. He has __to. He's helped everyone _else_. _"It's my stepfather," she says to the Mexican flag on his desk.

Mr. Schue reclines with a smile. "Yes, he's a great man and an excellent doctor," he praises, and Santana looks up in shock. "We're good friends; we work out together at the gym fifteen minutes from here. That big one? Do you know it?"

Santana does know it, but that's not the point. "But... _how_?"

"We just work out." Mr. Schue frowns. "We lift weights, run, etcetera. Why? Do you do something different?"

"No, I mean, _how did you meet_?" Santana scowls at having to elaborate. Her stepfather doesn't go to the gym. All the doucher does is work and drink.

Mr. Schuester laughs, embarrassed. "He needed a spotter for a set, and then we started talking. I saw him around the gym before, because we always work out at the same time," Mr. Schuester explains.

"Oh." Santana is sure now: she should've stalked Ms. Holliday. Her satanic stepfather and her Spanish teacher are currently engaged in a bromance.

"Does it bother you that we're friends?"

Santana rolls her eyes. _No shit, Sherlock_. "Um, not gonna lie, it's pretty weird."

Mr. Schue nods sagely. "I understand. So, what about your stepfather?"

"My stepfather—" Santana takes a deep, steadying breath before continuing. _She's never actually said it out loud_. "My stepfather—he is _not_ a good man, Mr. Schuester."

His face, previously warm and inviting, becomes frigid at the grievous insult. "What do you mean, Santana?"

"I mean..." The Latina swallows nervously. "I..."

She's never said it out _loud_.

But she can trust Mr. Schue with everything. Right? That's what everyone says. That's what he says _all the fucking time_. So it must be true.

So Santana tells him _everything_. Her story is quick and told in a low murmur, her eyes fixed on the dirty linoleum. This has never happened to her before. Is it supposed to be this quiet? Are Mr. Schue's eyes supposed to be this judging?

The office is deathly silent for what seems like hours. Santana is unsure. Should she look at him? Should she do something?

_What if he doesn't believe her?_

"Santana..." Mr. Schuester's voice is both pitying and condescending. "I don't know what to say."

_Say you believe me. Please_.

"I don't know how to feel, either. I hope you know that this is a serious accusation."

Will pauses to let his words sink in.

"Words can stay with you forever," Mr. Schuester says with a forced calm. "Your words can put your honest stepfather in prison if he is proven guilty, though he is most certainly _innocent_. And no matter what, he will have those false allegations following him for the rest of his life."

Santana hangs her head in shame.

_God, why did she think he would believe her?_

"Honestly, I don't believe you," he says in that same callous monotone. "It's your word against his. Santana, you are a liar, a thief, and a slut. You are attention seeking, you terrorize people as a form of entertainment, and you got a boob job during the summer. I know you've had some problems with your stepfather in the past—"

Santana bites her lower lip, attempting to drown it out. She doesn't _care_ anymore.

"—but that's no excuse to put a kind, gentle man in prison. His reputation as a respectable doctor will be tarnished. Look, I know most of the students and faculty hate you," Mr. Schuester continues with false sympathy. "I know Brittany and Artie are dating, and that means she doesn't care about you anymore. Your behavior and bullying are unacceptable, however."

The teacher picks up his bright red pen in dismissal. "You should follow your stepfather and Rachel's example. They are great role models and inspirations to the Lima community. And it's _okay_. I know you're jealous of her talent and the rest of the glee kids, but that's no reason to belittle them."

Santana doesn't have the strength to argue. His words echo.

_Honestly, I don't believe you._

"I think it's time for you to go," Mr. Schuester says, not glancing up from a test. It's her paper, the easy test on past tense verbs. He marks every answer wrong with a violent red slash.

The school bell beeps loudly.

* * *

Santana opens her eyes and the nightmare is over.

Her head pulses in time with the obnoxious alarm, and she realizes her demon clock was the odd sounding school bell in her dream. She wearily slaps the off button and checks the glowing red numbers. It's 6:30 am, which is the standard setting for a school day.

Santana doesn't have the privilege of forgetting her nightmares. They linger like shadows, flickering at the edges of her consciousness. _Remember, he did _this _when you told him_. _Remember, she doesn't _care_ anymore. Remember?_

She thinks about the nightmare. She hates those starring Mr. Schue, because the next day she has to look at him and think, "_You didn't believe me_. _You didn't believe me, you hate me, and I don't know why anyone trusts you."_

Lately, it's been harder and harder to separate these nightmares from reality, especially those involving Brittany and Mr. Schue. They're always _right there; _she avoids the two in her classes, the hallways, and glee club.

Santana is so tired of this, and it seems like Brittany does only care about the cripple.

The girl shifts, trying to extend her cramping legs. They're sore and bruised, and she's glad that she always puts her pajama pants on afterwards. Her entire body aches, and she wants a hot shower. Santana needs to burn and purge her _being_; she needs to shed this dead skin and grow a completely new _clean_ layer. (God, how she envies her neighbor's pet python.)

Her legs are sticky from—

Santana rolls over.

She'll go to school tomorrow.

* * *

"Ugh..." Santana groans, exhausted. It feels like she only napped for an hour, but she _really_ wants a shower. She's sweating under her thick comforter, and her clock says it's 1:03 pm, so she should probably get up.

Wait—she slept for another six and a half hours? _Without_ nightmares? Holy shit, Santana is _this_ close to offering a virgin sacrifice (aka Rachel Berry) in thanks.

Climbing out of bed takes another fifteen minutes of serious contemplation. There's not a lot to do in this house or in this bumfuck town, but soon she's up and standing in front of the light blocking curtains. It's great for sleeping purposes, because the sun rises into her bedroom like a total bitch and the black curtains keep her room dark and cool.

Whenever she wakes, however, she draws the massive curtains and opens the windows, bringing in light and fresh air. The afternoon light pours from her windows and creates an illusion: with light, nothing happened. With freezing air nipping at her skin, the grimy fingerprints are brushed away. The breeze is a necessity, to clear the air of, you know, what happened.

_You know what it is_.

With the light, all her fears and wishes for death vanish. Daylight becomes Santana's protective blanket against the monsters under the bed; so long as she remains in the light, where she can't see _him_, she'll be fine. Nighttime is a different matter entirely.

She strips and stares at her bruised body. Somehow, she has a vicious black eye, and bruises resembling fingertips line her ribs and inner thighs. Did he hit her that hard?

She resists the urge to vomit. Her legs are _still_ sticky and she's sweaty and _God_ she wants a shower.

* * *

"Do you think they have room service in this place? 'cause I want a burger." Santana leans over to the bedside table, the cheap blankets scratching her legs. Finn continues to stare straight ahead, face blanker than usual.

"I thought I'd feel different after," he mumbles. Apparently, chipped motel room paint is more fascinating than her.

Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well I've noticed that it takes about twenty or so times before the feeling of accomplishment really kicks in." She pauses, thinking of all those times she tried to forget, and of _Brittany_, the only person who succeeded. Brittany and her blue blue eyes shining with adoration and unconcealed affection.

"Do you really have so little self-worth?" Finn finally looks at her, his dopey brown eyes hardening. "Do you _really_ need to sleep with every guy you meet to feel special?"

Santana's mouth opens and closes wordlessly.

"Yeah. I thought so." Finn scoffs. "This was the biggest mistake of my life. I probably caught something."

Finn climbs out of the bed, mysteriously clad in his jeans and shoes. Santana doesn't bother worrying about it. The boy straightens his t-shirt and callously throws several bills onto the slick comforter.

"There." He sneers. "That should cover the room, your burger, _and _you. You take cash, right?"

* * *

Santana opens her eyes and the nightmare is over.

She checks the clock: 5:32 am glows obnoxiously in the dark. She turns away with a groan. She's been asleep for barely three hours. She crawled into bed at midnight, and considering how much Diet Coke she drank and how late she slept in, it took her forever to fall asleep. The worst is _laying _there and just watching the numbers slowly change. She was too tired to read, yet too wired to fall asleep; what the fuck kind of paradox is that?

And that dream. She knows it didn't happen that way. She knows Finn took her out to a greasy burger joint and he most certainly did _not_ toss cash on the bed. They talked about video games, movies, everything but sex (and his weird puffy pyramid nipples), and she actually had an okay time.

But, it felt—

But nothing. It didn't happen, so _chill the fuck out_.

Santana pulls the blankets over her head and squeezes her eyes shut. She can at least be thankful that Esteban collapsed in a drunken stupor and never bothered her.

_You know what it is_.

* * *

Santana is pissed. After failing to sleep and forgetting to turn off the alarm, she decided to go to school. She regrets it as soon as she walks in the bright red doors, proudly clad in her uniform. (She wore it only to piss off Quinn; one of her favorite pastimes is irritating the hell out of the blond.)

There are pink hearts everywhere, couples _this close _to fucking each other against the lockers, and what the hell? Is that a _kissing booth_? She grinds a poorly constructed pink heart under her heel. Obviously she's the one keeping this ridiculous school in line.

Santana read over her calendar this morning (she's actually a good student, okay?), and noticed that she missed four tests, two essays, three quizzes, and two group projects. Both the group projects were assigned by Schuester, of course.

She rubs her temples, swearing in two languages. Speaking of Schuester, he's going to want to talk to her in his patented, "I'm the father you never had except I _do_ have a father you asshole so shut the hell up" method. Blurgh.

_And_ there's their ginger guidance counselor with her new last name.

_Then _the glee club and oh sweet Jesus—

Santana pales, hands dropping to her sides. She has to talk to Coach. "_Oh Dios mío__, mátame __ahora__."_

Santana inhales deeply, bracing herself. She can do this. She is Santana fucking Lopez.

* * *

Santana rubs her stomach. When the surprisingly strong Becky manhandled her into Sue Sylvester's office fifteen minutes ago, her attacker elbowed her already bruised ribcage.

Santana scowls. She is currently a POW at Sue Sylvester's mercy. She seriously hates her fucked up life.

"So, Dora the Explorer," Sue begins, finally acknowledging Santana's presence. "How was Canada?"

Santana pauses in contemplation. "Cold."

Sue hums in agreement. "While I was invading Canada, I also found it to be a most desolate and useless nation. I immediately stopped my campaign after meeting the locals and discovering their reputation as homeland of the gays. _And_ hippies."

Fucking hippies.

Santana's eyes narrow in disgust. "I _hate _hippies."

Sue raises an eyebrow.

"I hate the way they always talk about protecting the earth and then drive around in those vans that get poor gas mileage, and they wear those stupid hemp bracelets. If I sees a hippie, I _will_ kick him in the nuts."

Sue ignores Santana's frequent monologue against hippies. "The only motivation for my ill-advised invasion was their exquisitely exotic maple syrup. However, their status as a class-five threat to patriotism outweighed the potential profit of their magically delicious liquid."

Santana snickers. "Wanky."

Sue frowns sternly at Santana. "But never mind my conquests. Let's play a game of 'Where in Canada is Sandbags Sandiego'?"

"Uh..."

"Well? Out with it."

"I know I went to Quebec."

"Is that _all_ you can say about your explorations? I bet you didn't even document the weaknesses of Toronto's defensive fortifications like a proper Cheerio."

Santana shrugs.

"And what happened to your eye?" Sue leans forward, obviously displeased. "You look like you got your ass kicked by Paul Bunyan himself."

Santana scowls and self-consciously covers the yellowing bruise. She wants to ask why Sue thinks _Paul Bunyan_ of all people kicked her ass; but, as with all of Sue's outlandish statements, she decides it's better not to ask.

"I got in a bar fight. In Quebec," Santana says defensively. "With _hippies_."

Sue reclines in her chair regally. "You're lying. But not about the hippie part. Your pure hatred for that despicable breed is admirable."

The damn woman is like a human lie detector.

"But it doesn't matter. I'll have Becky schedule an interrogation at a later date. You're a disgrace to your uniform and the unfortunate circumstances must be reported, even if it means torture. Lopez, that bruise is _hideous_ and needs a slab of raw meat on it stat," she adds.

Santana gags. _Interrogation?_ _Torture? Raw meat?_

"Now, onto more important problems. Lopez, your little road trip pales in comparison to the issue at hand," Sue says, but furious blue eyes tell Santana that she is _not _off the hook. "Two of my top Cheerios have quit the squad due to a minor misunderstanding, and I will not stand for it."

"Didn't you try to shoot Brittany out of a cannon?"

"Like I said: minor misunderstanding." The Cheerios coach takes on a slightly manic air. "I am pleased to see you in uniform."

"I wanted to annoy Quinn because she sent me a text about cannons and quitting the Cheerios," Santana answers, poking her eye experimentally.

"Don't touch it," Sue snaps. "And since those two quit, _you_ should?"

"I don't know," Santana says honestly. "It was really confusing. Brittany mentioned zombies and nuclear weapons and double rainbows. Wait, a Suclear weapon. But I'm still confused."

Sue steeples her fingertips together in contemplation, studying the girl in front of her. Santana fidgets under the attention.

"S, due to my crippling kindness, I will let you remain on the Cheerios in spite your idiocy. In fact, I am _so _forgiving, I won't move you to the bottom of the pyramid like I had originally planned."

Santana blinks. She didn't catch any of that. Her brain froze at 'crippling kindness'. "What?"

"If you can dig the silicon out of your brain for a few seconds, Christy Columbus the Canadian Explorer, you would realize that I'm offering you an opportunity to redeem yourself."

Her ex-Coach leans forward conspiratorially, and Santana wonders if she has to sell her soul again or sign another contract in blood. "Lopez, stay on the Cheerios."

"I'm not sure." Santana is hesitant, and it's not because of Sylvester's crazy. The truth is, she is _tired_. She's tired of Cheerios, glee club, and this entire fucking school. She's tired of Brittany dating that complete fucktard. She's tired of Esteban, and, you know.

_You know what it is._

She's tired of everything.

Sue's brows furrow. "What is there to be _unsure_ about? This is the Cheerios."

"It's..." Santana sighs. "I'm tired, Coach. I'm really, really tired."

Sue stares at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Santana feels as if someone finally _sees_ her, and she remembers why she has no nightmares about Coach Sylvester. Sure, the woman is a bitch and a diagnosable psychopath, but she actually _sees_ Santana; she doesn't look _through_ her, like every other person she knows.

"Does this have anything to do with your black eye?" Sue asks, blue eyes now flickering with concern.

"Psh, no. I got it fighting hippies in Toronto," Santana boasts weakly.

"Quebec," Sue corrects quietly, searching her face.

"Right," Santana says wearily. "Right."

"Santana, you can talk to me anytime." Coach's face is intense. "I have power. I can take care of anything. I can make anyone I want disappear."

Santana swallows back tears. "Okay."

Sue nods and picks up her glasses, surprisingly calm. "Dismissed. I won't forget this _or_ your abandonment of the Cheerios."

"Okay." Santana stands and grabs her bag, spinning around to keep Coach from witnessing her tears, her overwhelming _weakness_. "Okay."

"Now get the hell out of my office."

* * *

It's been an hour since Santana Lopez left her office, distraught and in tears. During that hour Sue Sylvester paced to and fro, hands clasped loosely behind her back, wondering what she could possibly do to help a student as intelligent, secretive, violent, and stupidly stubborn as Santana.

Then, the answer hits her. Sue calls her assistant Becky Jackson into her office.

Becky sits in a chair, waiting until her coach is ready. The woman appears tense and mildly _anxious_, emotions this titan has never displayed before.

"Becky, I have a mission for you," she says, eyes unseeing and determined.

"Yes, Coach." Becky takes out her omnipresent clipboard and a pen, poised to record every word.

"This is a top secret mission." She faces her first in command, the girl she regards as her surrogate daughter. Sue's jaw is set. No matter what anyone says, this girl is a genius.

"I need you to gather notes on a subject. You need to be careful, Becky. The subject is clever. No one must know that we are _vaguely_ interested. You need to take notes, notes that are to be seen only by us. If needed, you may, of course, hire someone to tail the subject or further the investigation.

"I have absolute faith in you, Becky," Sue continues, meeting the tiny girl's eyes. The blonde recalls another pair, that brown eye almost swollen shut, and she silently seethes. Something is amiss, and it does not involve hippies of the Canuck variety.

Becky's eyes gleam with excitement. "Who is it? I'm ready, Coach."

"I need you to gather information on Santana Lopez."

* * *

In second period Santana is supposed to meet with Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell. Instead, she makes a detour to Ms. Castle's abandoned classroom (she is suspended _again_ for misuse of school supplies). The ginger would only offer some useless advice, give her a few pamphlets, and send her on her merry way. Santana got better advice from Lord Tubbington that one time (speaking of, she misses that fat bastard).

The room smells god awful, but it's good for a bit of shut eye. This way, Santana doesn't have to think about how Sue Sylvester was actually _worried_; she doesn't have to think about the un-Sue-like promises to listen, and her Sue-like promises to kill someone, _Godfather _style.

It would not surprise Santana if Coach Sylvester were the head of a Lima mafia.

Santana closes her eyes. She'll sleep for a little bit. She slept three hours last night. She deserves a nap.

* * *

Santana is woken up by the ring of the final bell, signaling the end of the school day. She gently rubs the sleep out of her eyes, feeling almost as tired as she did before she went to sleep. She yawns loudly. Easily the best thing about her day was missing Spanish with Will Schuester. It was unintentional, but she is so glad she didn't have to talk to his awful hair.

_Santana, you are a liar, a thief, and a slut._

Now, all she has to do is survive glee club.

When Santana first walks in glee, Mr. Schue heads straight for her, pulling her into that tiny ass office. He tries asking her questions like, "Why didn't you go to Spanish?" "Why did you miss the appointment with Mrs. Pillsbury-whatever?" "Why am I such a loser?" "What's the deal with Canada?"

Santana quickly fields them with insults, yes/no responses, and, her personal favorite, "Mr. Schuester, I can't talk about that right now. I'm sorry, it's too painful—" (And then an exaggerated sniff for good measure and hell, she deserves a motherfucking Emmy.)

Now the rest of them are seated, and Mr. Schuester stands helplessly by the whiteboard. (The week's theme is _LOVE_. Gross, seriously?) Santana leans casually against the piano, basking in the tense silence. She glances at Brad, amused. He shrugs in response.

At Brad's shrug, the questions start with _Mercedes_ of all people.

"Where _were_ you?"

"Do you have any idea how _dangerous_ that was?" Berry stands up, trying to appear stern. Santana thinks she looks like a demented toddler.

Puck leans forward, zeroing in on her yellowing black eye. "Dude, what happened to your eye? That looks _nasty_—ow, Lauren! That hurt!"

"Shut it, Puckerman."

Santana has never been more slightly thankful for Lauren Zizes.

"You could have been killed, or, or _worse_." Santana rolls her eyes at Berry's escalating hissy fit.

"What's worse than dying?"

Mercedes ignores everyone and texts, her thumbs flying over the screen.

Manhands turns her attention to Girl Chang, thank God. "As a matter of fact, Tina, _many _things."

Santana searches for baby blues; baby blues that are so _miserable _and staring at the floor, refusing to glance at Santana. Wheels tries to lay a hand on _her_ Brittany's skinny jean clad knee (Jesus, the girl looks so cute with that cat shirt on), but Britt jerks away. Once she does, the dickwad attempts to glare at Santana; however, Santana has received fiercer looks from Britt's demon cat Charity, so the Latina sneers right back. The loser's cheeks turn pink under his ugly ass glasses.

Santana is beyond thankful that Britt didn't let those grimy gloved hands touch her, but it reminds her of one thing. Brittany is no longer _hers_.

A fierce glower to the side of her head alerts her to someone else's presence: Quinn Fabray. She meets those beautiful hazel eyes and gulps.

If looks could kill, Santana would be a smoldering pile of ash on the choir room floor. You know, if she were anyone _aside_ from Santana fucking Lopez, she might be a tiny bit afraid, especially when the blonde growls menacingly from the front, "Why are you wearing your uniform?"

Santana mutters back, "Because I wanted to, bitch."

Quinn's eyes burn with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.

"Did you bring back any maple syrup?" Mike's loud question drags her away from Quinn's psycho eyes.

"Or drugs?" Zizes adds casually.

"Yes to both," Santana says smugly. "That's how I got the black eye. I went all Lima Heights on some hippies because they didn't deliver the goods."

Santana is beginning to grow mildly fond of the idiots at her school.

"Damn girl! That's serious!" Mercedes calls from the back, texting away (most likely sharing the news of Satan's joyous return and drugcapades with Porcelain).

Mr. Schuester reprimands them hopelessly, "Language, please. And drugs are bad. We learned this in elementary school."

Zizes snorts condescendingly.

Berry clears her throat, and Santana imagines a midget Dolores Umbridge instead of Berry. The two do have the same horrible fashion sense. "Now, I'm not one to listen to idle gossip—"

"Yes you are, now shut the hell up, Gargamel." Puck snickers at Santana's creative nickname; Berry's face flushes a bright red.

"Did you see any aliens, or are Canadians the same thing?" Sam muses.

Santana takes back what she said before. She's _thankful_ her school is populated by idiots.

"Sam!"

"I think they're the same thing, though it might be rude to say that to their face," Brittany says thoughtfully, staring at a point above Santana's head.

"Thanks, Brittany," Sam says, ignoring Quinn's redirected fury.

Berry raises her finger in the air, as if that will garner attention. "Santana, I hate to ask, but—"

"Gremlin, _no_ to every damn question you're going to ask." Santana crosses her arms over her chest. She should've fucking stayed in Canada.

RuPaul pouts.

"Santana, language, _please_." Mr. Schuester's eyes are desperate.

Santana shrugs. "Sorry, Mr. Schue. Canadians curse all the time. I guess I got used to it."

"Canadians are such a mysterious people," Brittany says, her head quirked to the side curiously.

"Don't they live in tents?" Finn earnestly asks Puck, who raises an eyebrow in response.

"Oh dear Lord." Santana resists the urge to slap her forehead. Beside her, Brad shakes his head incredulously.

"Guys, calm down! Let's get back to work!"

"I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. Schuester. But I must first ask Santana one last question."

Santana groans. "Manhands, please reword that."

"In fifty words or less, please describe your out of country experience."

"That's not a question," Brittany argues loudly.

"Or describe your _otherworldly_ experience, Santana," Sam says over Brittany's one-sided argument with the hobbit.

"Shut _up_, Sam," Quinn hisses.

Santana waits until the chaos dies down. Silence is necessary for maximum effect. "It was..."

The Gleeks—well, mainly Berry—wait with bated breath. "_Cold_. Yeah," Santana decides with a smirk, "it was cold."

"_Santana!" _Berry cries in outrage, clutching her heart in shock. "Is that _all_ you can say?"

"What? You said 'or less.' And honest to god, it was in the fucking negatives the entire time!" she protests. "I thought my tits were gonna freeze off!"

"Okay, that's it. Practice canceled until you all _stop swearing!_ We'll pick up with Artie and Mike's song tomorrow!"

Mr. Schuester looks so _sad_ that Santana almost feels sorry for him. _Almost_.

Mostly she's proud of a job well done, especially since it saved her the misery of listening to the cripple sing to Britt.

_"I know Brittany and Artie are dating, and that means she doesn't care about you anymore. It's okay, Santana."_

Santana follows the rest of the kids out the door, effectively not answering any of their questions with more insults and yes/no responses. Their irritation is building, but she doesn't give a shit. It's like Mr. Schuester said.

"_I know most of the students and faculty hate you. It's not a secret."_

It's not a secret to her either.

* * *

_Her eyes begin to droop when the doorknob squeaks open. He's quiet. His movements are measured and calm. _

_ It's late, she's wide-awake, and Esteban isn't drunk. _

_ Santana has never been more terrified in her life._

* * *

Santana vs Hippies was inspired by the amazing Brittana fic, "She's a Runner, Rebel, and a Stunner" by gilligankane. You should read everything this person writes, it is amazing.

Also, I love Cartman's hippie rant, which is verbatim Santana's. You can find it around 30 secs in ( www. /clips/151795/trial-tv), though you should watch every single episode ever.

(I have seen every episode. And I'm better for it like lol)

Google spanish: "Oh god, please kill me now."


End file.
